Find Me When I'm Lost

by Cheryl A Head

  “Then you need to let Don give you backup. He can be wrong about a lot of things, but he’s usually not wrong about danger.”

  “I’m not wrong this time, either, Mack,” Don said.

  Charlie resisted with a shake of her head.

  “If he didn’t kill Fairchild, but thinks he should hide, he’s afraid of something, or someone,” Don said. “I don’t think he’d risk being a fugitive just to avoid arrest. He’s got a good reputation. People will believe him if he professes his innocence. Damn, I believed it hearing him say it just now.”

  Don’s words rang true. Plus, Charlie could see from the look on his face that he wouldn’t back down from his decision. It was probably smart to have Don nearby tonight.

  “Okay, okay. It’s almost six-thirty now. I need to call Mandy to let her know what’s going on. Then you should probably get to the rendezvous point so you can find a place to blend in. Franklin might be watching.” Charlie pushed the address toward Don.

  “McDonald’s?”

  “Franklin and I used to go there when we were first married. I’d leave my job, and he would slip away from his office, and we’d meet for lunch. There were a couple of picnic benches. At least there used to be.”

  # # #

  “You’re meeting him by yourself?” Mandy asked. Charlie could hear her concern.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. Don will be around somewhere. Out of sight. He thinks someone could be after Franklin.”

  “But why didn’t he just tell you what’s going on over the phone?”

  Charlie thought she heard more than concern for her safety in the question. Still some lingering doubt about her motivation for helping Franklin?

  “I don’t know, hon. He wanted to talk face to face. He sounded different than I’ve ever heard him. I don’t know, maybe afraid. But he was very clear about not having killed Peter.”

  “Are you going to get him to turn himself in?”

  “I’ll try. Whatever he’s afraid of, it can’t be worse than being hunted by the police. The longer he’s out there, the more guilty he looks.”

  “Call me when you’re done, or else I’ll worry.”

  “Okay.”

  “Will you have time to get something to eat?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ll make up a plate for you.”

  “Thanks, honey. I love you.”

  “Same here, Charlie. Please be careful.”

  Chapter 8

  Don drove into the parking lot of McDonald’s. It was seven o’clock. Maybe some of the restaurant’s sentimental history for Charlie and Franklin had to do with its location on Mack Avenue. Don drove first through the drive-thru, giving him the opportunity to check out the lot and its surroundings in case Franklin had arrived early, too. It also gave him the opportunity to get a quarter-pounder with cheese, large fries, and a soft drink.

  This Mickie D’s was well lit and always busy. It was bordered by food manufacturing and packing businesses on the south and west corners, a housing complex across Mack Avenue on the east, and on the north side a feeder road to the Chrysler Freeway. He re-cornered the lot and parked in the farthest space near the side street. From there he could watch the entrance, anyone approaching from Sacred Heart Church on Rivard Street, and most of Eliot Street. He lowered his sun visor to block his face, but not his view, and slumped in the seat.

  At ten to eight, Charlie’s Corvette entered the lot and parked adjacent to the side door. Charlie stepped out, looked around, and shoved her hands into gloves. It was cold tonight, hovering around the freezing mark. She walked toward the rear of the building, scanned the lot, and turned back toward the restaurant. Don watched her enter McDonald’s. She remained inside for five minutes, then exited with a large soft drink. Walking slowly to the rear of the lot, she leaned against the low brick perimeter wall, almost parallel to Don’s car. A streetlight shone just a few yards from Charlie, and Don remained slumped in his seat.

  A figure moved along the sidewalk on the Chrysler service drive, and Don adjusted his rearview mirror to watch. The man, carrying McDonald’s bags, crossed the side street and turned into the driveway of the church. Another movement caught Don’s eye. Someone walking in the empty lot at Rivard Street turned onto Eliot toward the rear of the McDonald’s. The hooded figure stopped, looking in Charlie’s direction. Maybe Charlie heard her name called, because she turned toward the person and waved. When the man reached the brick wall, he pulled himself onto the ledge, swung over, and dropped onto the other side. He walked toward Charlie and hesitated. Then they both moved forward and embraced.

  # # #

  “You look terrible,” Charlie said.

  “Thanks. You don’t,” Franklin said with a strained laugh. “I’ve had a rough few days.”

  “You want to go inside for something to eat?”

  “No. I better stay outside.”

  “I can go in and get you something.”

  “No thanks, Charlie. I’m not hungry. I’ve been eating, just not sleeping.” Franklin looked toward the open lot and cupped Charlie’s elbow. “Let’s move farther down. I can’t afford to be seen.”

  “Those picnic tables that used to be here are gone.”

  “It’s okay. We can just stay near the wall. There’s a lot I have to tell you, and I don’t want to stay too long.”

  Charlie listened intently as Franklin recounted Wednesday night. He’d met Peter to listen to his pitch for an investment in a new business. Within ninety minutes Peter was drunk and belligerent, and Franklin decided to drive him home. He’d made Peter a cup of black coffee and was about to leave. That’s the last he remembered before coming to with a head gash and pain pounding his skull. He staggered to his feet and saw Peter shot and bloodied. He was about to call 911 when he found something on the floor that struck fear into his heart.

  “What was it?”

  “This,” Franklin said pulling a thin fold of metal from his pocket and placing it in Charlie’s hand.

  In the dim light Charlie could just make out a curlicue of cut stones. Charlie felt its heft and then turned it over. It was a money clip.

  “Whose is it?”

  “Can you see the monogram?”

  Charlie flipped it over and squinted. Small diamonds formed the letter F in a fancy calligraphy style.

  “Is it yours?”

  “No. Stanford Fairchild has them made. He gives money clips to his business associates. It’s his trademark.”

  Charlie didn’t understand what Franklin was hinting at. “Did it belong to Peter?”

  “I found it on the floor by the front door. It wasn’t there when we came in.”

  “So someone else was in the apartment? This person rapped you on the head, shot Peter, and then dropped this as they left?”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “And you believe it was Peter’s father?”

  “Or someone he knows well enough to give them a money clip. He only gives those to the top people in his company. Charlie, I panicked. I didn’t want the police to find the clip, and I didn’t want to try to explain it to Pamela. So I took it with me when I left. I called 911 later.”

  “What about your gun? Did you have your gun with you Wednesday night?”

  “No. I never carry it. The last time I saw the gun it was in my safe. When I read that it had been found at the crime scene, I knew somebody was setting me up. As hard as it is to fathom . . .” Franklin paused, whipped off his knit cap, used it to swab his brow, and returned the cap snugly to his head. “I think Stan Fairchild was involved in his own son’s death.”

  Neither of them said anything for a few seconds. Franklin shoved his hands into his pockets. Charlie stared at the money clip. When she looked up, Franklin was staring at her.

  “You believe me, don’t you?”

  “I believe you didn’t kill anyone. Why haven’t you called Pamela?”

  “How do I explain that her father is trying to frame me for Peter’s
murder? It’s a lot to swallow, right?”

  “She wouldn’t believe you?”

  “I don’t know. She’s extremely loyal to her father.”

  “But what would be his motive for wanting Peter dead?”

  Franklin shook his head. “He’s been an embarrassment to Stan for a long time. I’ve heard Pam and her father talk about cutting Peter off from his trust fund. Peter had to leave Florida after his name was mentioned in a prostitution ring. The high-society circles in Palm Beach don’t like their members involved in scandal.”

  “When I met with Pamela, she described Peter as the black sheep. Of all things.”

  Franklin flinched, and Charlie thought he looked ten years older than his thirty-eight years. “Pam can be insensitive sometimes,” he said. “She was tired of bailing Peter out of jams. But she didn’t want to disown him. Not the way Stan did.”

  “You think he was so disappointed in his son that he’d . . .?”

  “I know Stan’s philosophy is if you have privilege you don’t take it for granted. You use it to maintain power and standing. To say Peter disappointed him is an understatement. Peter knew it, too. He once told me he thought his father hated him.”

  “I think you should come with me now and turn yourself in,” Charlie said.

  Franklin took a step back as if hit by a punch and shook his head. “I’m not going to do that.”

  “I believe your story, and I think the police will too.”

  “You’re not that naïve, Charlie. Fairchild is an important man in this state. The police won’t take my story over his. No. I’m in a deep hole and turning myself in won’t get me closer to the surface.”

  “You think hiding will?”

  “As long as I’m on the run, I have the upper hand. You know as well as I do the money clip is just circumstantial evidence. Have the police found any proof of someone else in the apartment?”

  “Not yet. But Don is pursuing that idea.”

  “How is old Don?”

  “The same.”

  “That means he probably thinks I’m guilty.”

  “He’s starting to have his doubts.”

  “Look Charlie, I’m glad you and Don are trying to help. I know you’ll pursue things the police won’t. Like that money clip. Someone else was in that apartment Wednesday night. Either Fairchild, or someone he hired. Keep pursuing that. I’ll try to call you every other day.”

  “You won’t be using your cell phone, I hope.”

  “I’m only turning it on long enough to retrieve messages.”

  “The police can still get a location from those pings.”

  “I’m constantly moving.”

  “You should get a burn phone.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Are you going to call Pamela?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want me to tell her you’re okay?”

  “Yes. But don’t tell her anything else. I can’t confront her about her father yet. Not until I have proof.”

  Charlie had a slew of arguments for Franklin surrendering to the police, but she could see he wouldn’t change his mind. He’d always been a relaxed person, comfortable in his own skin and easy to know and like. Tonight he was edgy. Looking over the wall and around the lot as they talked. Shifting from one foot to the other. Sweating. He was high on fear and dejection.

  “It’s not so much the police I’m worried about. It’s Fairchild,” Franklin said. “I’m his scapegoat. He might have people out looking for me.”

  “He and Pamela hired me to look for you.”

  “Yeah. But you don’t want me dead.”

  “Why would he want you dead?”

  “He knows I have the money clip, Charlie. I sent him a letter warning him about it.”

  # # #

  Don sat gripping the handle of the Buick. He watched Franklin’s every move because the guy acted like a junkie. During the entire conversation, he fidgeted. He looked over his shoulder, put his hands in and out of his pockets, kept taking off his cap. At one point he stepped back from Charlie and seemed ready to run. Then toe-to-toe, Charlie looked up at him, listening. She said something that made him shake his head. Then they reversed the scene. Finally, Franklin reached for Charlie’s hand and held it, and Charlie pulled back. That’s when Franklin lifted his hood over his head and walked briskly toward Mack Avenue. He crossed in the middle of the street and disappeared behind a gas station.

  Charlie watched Franklin meld into the darkness. She turned toward the Buick, and Don sat upright as she slipped into the passenger seat. He held his peace while Charlie gathered her thoughts. Then she turned to him.

  “We have a fucking mess, Don.”

  Chapter 9

  Charlie stood back from the whiteboard, reviewing the sticky notes that represented facts and questions. As usual, the line of red question notes was a lot longer.

  Maybe it was the personal element, but this case had already made Charlie weary. Plus, it was Saturday. She looked at a not-quite-fully-awake Don nursing a coffee. Only Judy seemed fresh and chipper.

  “So you believe Franklin’s story?” Judy asked.

  “Don asked me the same thing last night, and Mandy asked when I got home. Franklin said he was knocked out, and he found Peter dead when he regained consciousness. He’s the one who called 911. Yes, I believe him. I don’t know if it’s true about his father-in-law’s complicity, but he thinks it’s true.”

  Charlie reached into her pocket and dropped the money clip on the table.

  “So that’s it,” Don said, reaching for the clip. “He let you keep it?”

  “For safekeeping. He’s afraid Stanford has people besides us looking for him.”

  Don twisted and turned the clip. Reaching into his pocket for his wallet, he took out a few bills, folded them, and tucked them into the clip. “Nice. These things are considered jewelry you know. This one probably cost about a hundred bucks.”

  Judy reached for it and weighed it in her hand. “Sterling silver, monogrammed, and if those are diamonds, it costs even more.”

  “The money clip in the apartment connects to Stanford, but it doesn’t prove he was involved in the murder,” Don said. “Peter probably had one of these, along with lots of other people, if his father hands them out as mementos.”

  “Franklin says this particular one belongs to Stanford because the souvenir clips have a smaller F.”

  “Okay. That’s a start. I’ll follow up,” Judy said. “Maybe I can find the jeweler who made them for Fairchild. I’ll pretend to be with his insurance company.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  “Should we brainstorm the questions on the board, Mack?”

  “Yes, but I’ve got something else first.” Charlie reached for the packet of blue notes.

  “Uh-oh.” Don said. “The blue ones.”

  The blue Post-its were used for gut feelings, the “what ifs,” the notions that didn’t spring from logic. These ideas often came from Charlie’s highly attuned sixth sense. In this case, the idea was more fear than conjecture. Charlie wrote: “What if Pamela is involved?” Instead of placing it on the whiteboard, she placed it in the middle of the table. Don and Judy leaned forward to read it.

  “No, Charlie!” Judy exclaimed. “I didn’t really care for Pamela either, but she seemed genuinely concerned about Franklin. I can’t believe she’d be a party to framing him.”

  “Franklin says Pamela is extremely loyal to her father. You saw the dynamics between them when you met with the Fairchilds.”

  Judy nodded.

  “Don, what do you think?” Charlie asked.

  “I have to mull it over. I’ve seen it before, of course. A wife gets fed up with a meandering husband. A kid conspires to kill an abusive father. I even investigated a case where two sisters had put out hits on each other. Murder takes on a whole new level of ugliness when it’s in a family.” Don rubbed at his chin. “To tell you the truth, I find it hard to believe that this Fairchild guy would
resort to killing his son. He’s rich. He has a lot of resources. Why wouldn’t he just buy his son an island and send him away somewhere? That makes more sense to me.”

  “I see your logic,” Charlie said.

  “So you think the wife could have set this up on her own?” Don asked, considering the idea.

  “Absolutely not,” Judy said. She rose to get another cup of coffee and remained at the pot to drink. Charlie stood and put the blue note on the board.

  “Judy, I trust your instincts. Talk me through your reservations about Pamela’s involvement.”

  “First, she called you for help. She hired you.”

  Charlie shook her head. “Pamela admitted it was Stanford who suggested it. Besides, calling in some help might be a ploy to appear innocent.”

  “Okay, second,” Judy continued. “Pamela was truly hurt that Franklin’s in trouble. I saw that with my own eyes. She seemed to be suffering. That wasn’t fake.”

  “I agree. It didn’t appear to be an act. She was unnerved when she called to tell me about the charges against him and was visibly shocked when we saw her the next day.”

  “That doesn’t mean a thing,” Don said. “I’ve interviewed a lot of crooks who break down and cry when someone’s been killed, and then two days later they’re crying again after it’s proven they were the murderer. You can’t go by people’s tears and shock. The average criminal can be a great actor.”

  “Maybe that’s true, but I could tell Pamela wasn’t faking it,” Judy said. “The woman doesn’t have a poker face. All through the meeting with her parents, she grimaced and shook and squinted at everything they said. She wasn’t even subtle about it.”

  “If you say so, Novak. What else you got?”

  “Third, I did some checking on how Franklin and Pamela met and on their courtship.” Judy sneaked a look at Charlie, who had a raised eyebrow. “I was just curious. The local papers and social blogs love to write about a power couple, so there was a lot of stuff.”

  “And?” Charlie raised the other brow.

  “They met at a Focus Hope charity event. They both like to travel and collect art. All the articles talk about what a great-looking couple they make. In all the photos they look so in love. They started a foundation together to support a girls’ STEM academy on the east side. Did you know that, Charlie?”